


don't say (we have come now to the end)

by theseerasures



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:49:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseerasures/pseuds/theseerasures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No,” he says, “I remember…” Then he shakes himself, extends a hand. “Steve Rogers, ma’am.”</p>
<p>As if anyone doesn’t know who he is. She takes the hand anyway. “I’m—“</p>
<p>“Angie Martinelli,” he says, grinning, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”</p>
<p>Or, the one where Angie Martinelli meets Steve Rogers on a train to Washington DC, and not-so-hilarity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProfessorSpork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorSpork/gifts).



> For Leah, who asked for many things for her birthday, of which this is not among them.
> 
> Sorta-kinda-maybe a reference to Buffy.

The first time she sees him, it happens like this.

She avoids him, with the patent studiousness borne out of years of experience in food service. With a calculated casualness (“Ignore you? ‘ _Course_ not, I’m just waitin’ on your order.”) that’d make Peggy roll her eyes and give up that rueful smile of hers, if Angie were avoiding someone else. If Peggy finds out who Angie is avoiding, right this instant, there’d probably be less smiling and more concerned questions and lectures on the passage of time and _I’m happy with_ you _._

(Not that Peggy is in much of a…disposition to lecture, these days, but Angie still makes a note to never tell her what happened.)

Problem is that the whole “make a quick exit while refusing eye contact” routine, it worked better when Angie was a nimble twenty-something standing on solid ground than now, when Angie is a ninety-something granny who’s not so nimble anymore, whose eyesight is just about on level with a bat, who’s standing on the not _quite_ steady floor of a train that decides to go over some kind of obstacle, right at the wrong moment—

She manages to keep her footing and avoid a fractured hip, but _only_ by grabbing onto the closest solid thing available, which is how she goes from avoiding Captain America to—well.

“Um,” he says, very politely.

Which is all she needs to remove her hand from his _very firm_ left pectoral like she’d been scalded. “Excuse me,” she says, breezy like she feels up ageless super-soldiers in dining cars all the time, and steps away before she gives into the temptation to look him in the eye and…

She doesn’t know. Cry, probably. Blubber about why he left, why he took so long to come back. Maybe give him a good slap, for coming back at all, when the world had done its even best to move on. Do something else, something equally not in her place.

Instead, she just beats a hasty retreat, and only looks back once.

* * *

It’s not as if she doesn’t know who he is. It’s not as if she doesn’t know what happened.Even if Angie hadn’t shared a home with someone who kept a picture of Steven Grant Rogers in her wallet for near on sixty years, even if she hadn’t once looked at newspaper picture of him and said something about how she’d like to eat him with a spoon—she’s old, not dead, and you’d have to be dead to not have an inkling about what’s been going on.

Angie reads the newspapers; she watches television, she has a computer with an Internet connection. She was around midtown when the aliens dropped out of the sky. Point is: she knows. About superheroes. About Steve Rogers, back from his icy grave.

She just…doesn’t care, all that much, and the parts that she cares about she doesn’t let herself get worried over, because it’s none of her business and it’s none of her business. (It’s a little bit of her business because _lived with Peggy for almost sixty years_ , all that, but still. She’d chosen, a long time ago, to be the _after_ in Peggy’s life. It’s not something she wants disturbed, even if the _before_ is suddenly far more present than Angie’s ever anticipated.)

So: Angie reads the news, she goes back to their apartment after it’s repaired, courtesy of Stark Industries. And every other week, she boards a train and rides it down to DC.

Nothing changes.

* * *

The second time she sees him—well, she really couldn’t help herself, could she? Not with him sitting right across the aisle from her. Not looking the way he did.

The thing about Peggy is that she’s never said anything about Angie reminding her of Steve, not ever, and Angie knows that means she’s _always_ reminded Peggy of Steve, only Peggy would never say because she’d use the silently-appraising, repressive upper lip English routine till the cows come home, and then she’d try it with the cows.

Angie never really understood the comparison, except for maybe the whole “we both know our way ‘round a stage” thing, but right now, with her looking at him looking out at New Jersey with that “I thought myself into a hole I can’t climb out of” stare, he sure reminds her of _someone_.

_I thought I might tell you about my day, if you have a moment_.

Ninety-something or not, Angie’s always been a champion for a lost cause.

“Didn’t use to be all strip malls,” she opens with. A little too loud, a little too forward, but that’s—that’s who she is. It’s what Peggy loves— _loves_ about her, and if Captain America turns up his nose at that then he can shove his red white and blue up his—

“No,” he says, interrupting her train of thought. All quiet. “I remember …” Then he shakes himself, extends a hand. “Steve Rogers, ma’am.”

As if anyone doesn’t know who he is. She takes the hand anyway. “I’m—“

“Angie Martinelli,” he says, grinning, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

She almost mouths off, says something like _didn’t think obscure stage actresses from the fifties would be in your SHIELD debriefings_ , but then her brain catches up to his words, and she realizes that he’s looking at her like _he’s_ known her for more than half a century as well.

And Angie thinks: _ah_.

* * *

Steve is—

Well, there’s a lot of Peggy in him, actually, from humility to that neat balance between polite and politely saying _fuck off_ to a tendency to ask some _very_ awkward questions.

“How come you two never…?”

Angie blinks. “What, went and got hitched?”

He blushes inexplicably. Serves him right. “It’s been legal for a year, right?”

“You plannin’ a ceremony for two little old ladies?” He doesn’t reply, just fixes her with that steady all-American stare that she decides in that instant that she _hates_ , because it means she actually has to come up with an answer other than a glib _never felt like the right time_. “Well,” she says, to stall for time.

Steve waits.

“We met in ’46,” she tells him, because it’s easy to start there, with the stuff you might put on a tombstone. “I was a waitress back then, at an automat, and she—she…”

Steve smiles like it’s the only thing that keeps him afloat; Angie smiles back the same way.

 “She told me she worked for a phone company, which—that little fib exploded when I found her on my window ledge when some fathead SSR agents were around—we lived next door back then, at the Griffith. They were after her, something about treason and vandalism, though that might have been Mrs. Fry—“

It’s wrong; she’s telling this wrong. Steve isn’t smiling anymore, just looking at her in concern as she rambles the _what_ and completely skips over the _why_ , forgetting what he asked in the first place. “Anyway. Point is, we lost touch after, she didn’t tell me what was going on until a couple of years later, and by _that_ time she was…Director of SHIELD. It was complicated.”

“And you?”

“I was…” Even now, Angie straightens like she’s back at the Senate hearings. “I was an up-and-coming stage actress with _very_ well-known Socialist leanings. And some friends and family, who leaned out further than I did. That was complicated too.”

Steve makes a noise like he’s going to interrupt—probably something about how he didn’t die so everyone could relive the Palmer raids—but she waves him off. “I came out of it alright, having the leader of a clandestine intelligence agency vouch for you really helped, but—that was it, for my career. Having the Director of SHIELD go around in public hand-in-hand with the Italian Commie girl would have been hard to explain, so we laid low. And…”

“Gabe?”

Angie nods. “He was always around, helping with dinner, fixing the plumbing and the broken door. Sometime between fighting the Russians and making grits for breakfast Peggy threw a copy of our keys at him, and that was it.”

He frowns. “Peggy didn’t say—“

“She doesn’t like to talk about it,” Angie says, “I don’t either—but I only ever heard the stuff from the neighborhoods. ‘Dirty _melanzane_ hands all over Cap’s used goods’—don’t look at me like that, I was the one who lived it, remember? Agents quit left and right after they got engaged, but Peg—she just steamrolled over all of it. Hiked up recruitment. Invited the homeless to the reception.”

“And you?”

It’s her turn to frown. “He loved both of us. Peggy loves both of _us._ I love both of them. We made it work.” The details were more complicated than that—the three of them cramped in a tiny apartment in the days when “Director of SHIELD” wasn’t as lucrative, Peggy and Gabe going out and fighting for a world that’s never going to put them in a history book except as a footnote, Angie just…waiting by the first aid box at home, meticulously picking apart her rosaries. _Angela Merici, patron of the wounded_. At its core it _was_ that simple.

Angie clears her throat. “Sometimes she’d say something about marrying me and marrying all of us _together_ , but those usually came after half a bottle of Scotch and something about leaving SHIELD and blowing the country to smithereens, so. After Gabe—went...it just wouldn’t seem right. We were a three-man unit for so long.”

He’s silent for long enough for Angie to realize that she might have just told sixty years of scandalous love history to _Captain America_ of all people. He’s silent for long enough for her to get a little defensive. “Look,” she says, “I know you didn’t set out to listen to your ex—ex-something’s girlfriend talk about her love life, but—“

“No!” Steve protests, and when he looks up he doesn’t look all that offended—just suddenly very young. “I just…I don’t think I realized until now what the SHIELD debriefings left out. And what I…”

He breaks off, fixes his gaze back on his lap. Angie doesn’t hesitate to rest a hand on his back. “You missed a lot,” she says, and then, because it’s not as if she had signed up for an hour of melodrama either: “You coulda been a contender.”

Steve huffs a laugh, more in surprise than anything. “That’s—is that from a movie?”

Her jaw drops.

* * *

“Listen,” she says, after the expose on Marlon Brandon’s repertoire lands them at Union Station. “I ride this route every two weeks, to—see Peggy. Any time you get off from saving the world, you can come find me. Keep a lady company.”

He smiles again, manages to look less like he’d rather be miserable. “Sure. I’d like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a highly classified mission in the Midwest involving rogue robots the next time Angie visits DC, and a highly classified mission in Siberia involving Russians the time after that. Angie knows about both, because Steve finds out where she lives and sends her two letters written in longhand on paper that looks like he might have had it in his pocket when he took that dip into the Arctic. Each letter contains at least five versions of _I’m sorry I can’t make it_ and some contextless details about what he’s doing when he’s not on the Amtrak, and he signs them _yours sincerely, Steve._

They make her scoff and wonder just what Nick Fury is _doing_ with SHIELD if he can build invisible flying aircraft carriers but can’t give Captain America an email account. She almost shreds both, in case SHIELD takes issue with the contextless details and sends agents—no less fatheaded, even after almost seventy years—to her door, but something makes her hang onto them.

A drawing falls out of the second one—just a simple landscape of somewhere snowy, which could be Siberia but just as possibly could be Minnesota. Angie cries all over it for a reason she can’t fathom, spends the rest of the day staring at the ceiling fan in their living room and wondering who Steve Rogers sent letters to during the War.

All the goodwill she builds up for him evaporates the next time they meet on the train, though, because he doesn’t come alone.

“Hi,” Iron Man says, bounding up to her before she even has a chance to sit down, “Hi, I’m—“

“Tony Stark,” she says, batting his outstretched hand away.

He grins something not altogether friendly. “Angie Martinelli,” he says. “I think we have that backwards.”

Angie doesn’t laugh, doesn’t say anything as he throws himself at the seat next to her. Across the aisle from them, Steve is watching and making subvocal clucking noises in distress; Angie ignores him, too.

“So Peggy Carter, right?” Tony asks, after a long silence. “What a lady. Pretty sure she kicked me out of boarding school once.”

“I never liked your dad,” Angie says, matching his over-bright tone. It’s either that or kick him in the shins. “Most I liked him was when Peggy knocked him into the Thames on V-E Day, and I only heard about that secondhand.”

Steve makes a small choking noise that Tony ignores. “Yeah, he wasn’t really around. Jarvis—that was our butler, he—“

“Never liked him either,” Angie says, with a smile could rot a man’s teeth.

There’s a satisfying _click_ as his mouth snaps shut.

* * *

“Look I’m not saying Marlon Brando isn’t _important_ ,” he’s saying half an hour later, because Tony Stark is apparently incapable of being silent.

“You’re just saying that it’s _more_ important to dump him straight into a George Clooney flick—“

“ _The Descendants_ is a good movie! It’s about a man who comes to term with his grief, I thought it was appropriate.”

“You just thought it was appropriate because it was about a rich white _man_.”

“What, and Brando movies aren’t? Modern movies don’t have a _lot_ of representation, but it’s the best we have—“

“With no information on the struggle before! He needs to know—“

“Excuse me,” says Steve. “Shouldn’t I get a say in this?”

They stare at him for a moment before turning their attention back to each other. “That’s not even getting into how goofed up your priorities are,” Angie says, “Showing him _Terminator_ before _The Godfather_ —“

“Oh come _on_ ,” Tony says. Behind him, Steve very gently drops his face into his hands.

* * *

“It wasn’t a cover,” she tells Tony, after they’ve exhausted the topic of which pictures are the good pictures. Steve is slumped against the window, having dropped off some time after she and Tony decided that the right _American_ thing to do is to have a vote before Steve sees any movie at all. “Gabe and Peggy.”

To his credit, Tony looks a little abashed. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

“You were,” Angie corrects him. “But it wouldn’t have been smart to cover an Italian lady up with a black man, you know. Not during those times.”

“I guess not,” he says, poking aimlessly at the headrest of the seat in front of them. “Did you know my mom?”

Angie stares at him, thrown by the abrupt question; he flushes. “After Cap told us about you I might have…gone through some old photos. Hacked the surveillance at some SHIELD-sponsored black-ties. Jarvis helped. Not—not _Jarvis_ Jarvis, Jarvis my robot butler.”

“Your robot butler,” she echoes, still staring.

He responds with a negligent wave. “He’s more Artificial Intelligence than C-3PO, but since you apparently don’t think much of _Skynet_ —whatever. I saw you at one of the functions, talking to…”

“Maria,” Angie says, closing her eyes.

When she opens them again, it’s to Tony gazing intently at her. “It was around ’67, ’68? Looked like you two were—close.”

She sighs. “Yeah. I saw her at the _Times_ office trying to sneak somethin’ of hers into the bottom of the pile, asked if she wanted lunch. Carbonells didn’t live that far from Martinellis when I was a kid, and…solidarity, you know? I was the reason she even _met_ your layabout of a dad, so you have me to thank for that.”

Tony gives her a strained smile. “Layabout’s not a word that’s…commonly attached to my father,” he says, and Angie shrugs; it’s not as if _she_ ever saw Howard Stark do any inventing. For a minute it looks like he’s found out all he wanted to know, but: “So they were—? She—“

And _then_ it looks like he’s not going to say another word, maybe ever, but Angie got the gist. Tilts her head so far back her neck creaks, and thinks back to Maria the night of Howard’s proposal. Flats and knee-highs scattered on the bed, Maria throwing her head back after Peggy brought out the wine, laughing as she told them what happened: _he asked I said “yes” and he said “are you sure”_

Angie had laughed then, long and hard; but _maybe_ , she thinks now, maybe the mental image of him spluttering in the Thames isn’t quite the best thing he’s ever given to the world.

Or at least not the only thing.

Tony’s still waiting for an answer, so she looks him in the eye, tells it straight. “She loved him. Lord knows why, but…they had a good run.”

She’s not sure if that’s relief in his eyes or something else, but after a while he just…sighs, a little shakily. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I thought. Just couldn’t tell me what I wanted to hear, huh?”

Angie flashes him that megawatt, over-wide smile again. “If you want to satisfy your Oedipus complex, there’s always the _Enquirer_.”

Tony stares at her like he can’t believe those words came out of her mouth, and then lets out a God-honest _cackle_ that jerks Steve out of his chair.

* * *

When they arrive, Tony jumps down onto the platform and disappears with only a flippant “See you around, Aunt Angie,” but Steve hangs back. “Sorry about…” he rummages for an appropriate word, settles with: “Him.”

But Angie shakes his head. “He’s a good boy.”

“Terrible taste in movies, though,” he says, and then blinks down innocently at her. “What? I was paying attention. We’re watching _Star Trek_ next Friday.”

“ _Star Wars_ ,” she corrects, smiling. “You’ll like it. One of Peg’s favorites.”

He grips her hand tightly before letting go. “I’ll hold you to that.”

* * *

Angie doesn’t see Steve again, not for another three months, but in the meantime she receives six letters—written on fancy stationary this time, probably because Tony insisted, but still longhand, probably because Steve insisted. The apologies have been pared down to only two per letter and the mission details are still vague, but he makes up for it with in-depth reviews of each _Star Wars_ movie, starting with _A New Hope_.

(“ _I_ wanted to try Machete order,” Tony sulks at her from over the phone, because _of course_ he knows her number.

“No,” a woman’s voice says, flatly, and then they hang up before Angie can ask what the hell they’re talking about.)

Steve attaches pieces of artwork with every letter now, but by far her favorite is the first one he sends—detailed portrait of Princess Leia, buns and all. On the corner he writes: _this is why, right? Who can blame her_. Angie doesn’t sob all over that one, though it was a close thing; she pins it up on the wall instead.

Sometime between _The Phantom Menace_ and _Attack of the Clones_ she realizes she’s being followed.

It’s not some kind of revolutionary thing; Angie might be a near-nobody, but she’s a near-nobody who’s been sharing a bed with a former Director of SHIELD _and_ a former Howling Commando for half a century. She knows what to watch for, even knows some sleight of hands to use to lose a tail.

That persistent splash of red in the crowd keeps coming back for all of Angie’s tricks, though, until Angie sees her on the train and decides _to hell with it_ and plants herself right next to the woman.

“Angela Martinelli,” her minder says, smiling faintly.

“You know,” Angie says, “I am _really_ tired of people stealing my introductions. I don’t suppose you can tell me _your_ name.”

The woman just keeps smiling. “Natalie.”

“Hmph.” A lie, definitely. She peers into Natalie’s face, frowning. “I know who you are—you were in midtown when the aliens came. What does Nick Fury want with a helpless old lady?”

Still smiling. It’s starting to set to set Angie’s teeth on edge, if she’s being honest. “I’d hardly call someone in your _position_ helpless.”

“Gonna have to work harder than that if you want to make me blush,” Angie says, ignoring the sudden blood thrumming in her ears, “And that’s all old news, anyway. Why now?”

“You’ve had a pretty interesting life after your acting career,” Natalie says, ignoring her question, “Community organizer, union activist, and…a couple of missions as a consultant for SHIELD. Our first ever.”

Angie shrugs. “Sometimes your missions needed that actress touch, what can I say?” Natalie’s trying to lead her to some answer, Angie’s sure of it—she just wishes they could _be_ there already, even if _there_ means a bullet in her gut.

“It’s an impressive record,” Natalie says, still ignoring her. “1958, posing as a human trafficker in Fortaleza, ’62, as a missing Russian heiress Elizaveta—“

“Pushkarskaya,” Angie says, frowning. “Wait. I know who you are. Natasha Romanoff. Peggy was still Director when you defected—your paperwork was just about the last thing she signed.”

Romanoff’s face stays blank, but Angie’s not done yet. “I recognize your voice too, it just took me a while to place because I heard it—you were the woman on the phone with Tony when he was rambling on about machetes.”

This time, Romanoff looks surprised. “Machete _order_ ,” she says after a long pause, “It’s some stupid way of watching _Star Wars_ Stark found on the Internet. It’s impressive, that you remember these details.”

“Oh, well,” Angie says, tapping the side of her noggin, “Memory like a steel trap, you know.”

It comes out more bitter than she intended, which had been plenty bitter in the first place.

She glares at Romanoff. “Fury didn’t send you.”

Romanoff is silent for a while, and then: “I had some questions.”

“And you thought you’d following me for a week and then showin’ up here to _threaten_ me was the best way to get answers?”

Another pause. “I was trying to—“

“—poke me to see how I’d react, I got that. This is because of Steve, isn’t it?”

A silence that almost feels _sulky_ , this time.

“Look,” Angie says, “I’m gonna tell you mean what I told Howard Stark’s pestilential brat nicer. Me and Peggy and Gabe—that’s private. That’s _family_. Even Nick Fury doesn’t know everything, and unlike the rest of you nosy assclowns, he understands that he doesn’t _need_ to know. Neither do you.”

Romanoff stares up at her, impassive. “Does Agent Triplett know who his maternal grandmother actually is?”

For a second Angie’s sure she sees red. “Antoine is _family_ ,” she says, fighting to keep her voice even. “Of course he knows.”

“And Steve?”

Angie remembers the picture in Peggy’s wallet, Gabe’s smile whenever the subject of _Captain America_ came up, the way Steve looked at her that second time on the train. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Blank stare. “Steve,” Angie sighs, feeling awful old, “Is watching a _Star Wars_ movie every two weeks. His favorite so far is _Return of the Jedi_. He didn’t like _Phantom Menace_ , but he thinks _Attack of the Clones_ can fix things, and I haven’t had the heart to tell him yet that it doesn’t. Steve went down to visit Peggy the _day_ he found out she was still alive—all he needed was a location and a ride to the train station. He found me, even without all that. Steve’s family and he’s _fine_ , Natasha, or at least on the right track. There’s no need to treat him like a fucking candle. Next time you have questions, Steve has my address in Manhattan and Tony has my number. Alright?”

She waits until Natasha nods reluctantly, then lets out a breath of relief. “There’s no graceful way to exit a lecture like that,” she says, “So I’m just going to—“ she turns around, back facing where Natasha is—“look this way, and you can do your secret agent trick, and…”

When she turns back ‘round, Natasha's already disappeared.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Natasha,” Steve announces loudly, the next time Angie sees him at Grand Central, “Has something she’d like to say to you.”

She rolls her eyes as Steve prods her forward, but the look Natasha gives Angie is genuine enough. “Sorry about last time,” she says. “Won’t happen again.”

Angie nods. “Next time let’s try lunch,” she says, but again—too late. Natasha’s already vanished into the crowd.

Next to her, Steve chuckles. “What a mess, huh?”

“Commandos were better,” Angie agrees, shrugging. “You ready?”

* * *

“…by the time she comes home and we’re on the living room floor practically _wrestlin’,_ ” Angie says, “Gabe trying the grab the pages I ripped outta his notebook while I try to wriggle loose, and Peg does that—you know? The English…”

“ _Ahem_ ,” Steve demonstrates, a real smile on his face now as he drinks in the details.

“Exactly,” Angie says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “So we both look up to her, and we both say, ‘ _English.’_ She pulls Gabe up, winks at _me_. And she says—‘Don’t worry, darling. I’ve already made copies.’”

“Of course she did,” Steve says, smile widening even further, eyes rapt. “Love poems, huh?”

“Rhymed and everything,” Angie says, and because she can’t resist: “Didn’t think to try _that_ one on her during the war, did you?”

“Never had the talent, I guess.”

“Gabe did,” she says. “I remember…mine had something about ‘gold lights above the sea.’ He liked doing it—writing, I mean. Used to scribble all over the debriefing reports, drove Peggy up the wall. Used to draw, too, but…he always said you were better.”

The train turns east, and Angie watches as Steve’s larger shadow swallows her own. “I told him that was crap,” she finally says. “Still kinda think so.”

Steve makes a quiet humming sound that she takes as agreement. “The first time I went to see Peggy,” he says, and then clears his throat. Angie stays quiet—all ears. “I don’t think…she didn’t believe it, when they first told her who I was. Probably thought I was a—a body-double, or a clone, or…something. Didn’t believe it until she saw my hands. Wasn’t what they looked like or anything like that, just. She told me afterwards it was how they moved, it reminded her of an artist.”

Angie grabs his hand and gives it a nice hard squeeze, wondering just how many times he’s had to do this—prove to Peggy that he’s real, he’s back.

“I didn’t know Gabe drew,” he says finally. “Bastard never gave me any love poems either.”

A startled laugh clatters its way out of her mouth before she can help herself. “You jealous of me, Steve Rogers? I'm all _decrepit._ ”

His mouth twists and he is far, far away. “Does it need saying?”

Angie looks at him, biting her bottom lip, and then decides _well, what’s the harm?_ “Come on,” she says, standing up and pulling him along. “I’m gonna teach you how to dance.”

“I—what?”

“Dance,” she repeats firmly, ignoring the little voice in the back of her head that says the harm is probably a broken foot. “I don’t have a music player, so you’ll have to imagine the Goodman jazz.”

Steve is still sitting. “Angie,” he says. “We’re on a train.”

“I’m trusting you to not step on me, Stars and Stripes. Think you can handle that?” He stares at her and she stares back, not willing to budge on this one. It’s not like Peggy hasn’t told her what Steve’s last words were a million times.

After a while he sighs, flashes her a grin that drags her gut down to somewhere ‘round her ankles before standing up. “I can probably manage.”

* * *

She trades watching the Disney movies in the right order for _My Cousin Vinny_ , so for the next few months she gets drawings of every cartoon character imaginable—from Mulan on the top of the Imperial Palace to a re-interpretation of _Wreck-It Ralph_ filled in with the Avengers. (He puts himself as Fix-It Felix, standing slightly off-center as a Hulk-green Ralph raises his arms.)

The letters themselves are neatly typed on computer paper. The time-and-place details get even more rote and unspecific, but from what she can tell he’s doing more of the “personal favor for Nick Fury” and less of the “saving the world.” What replaces the scenery descriptions and contextless anecdotes is a hell of a lot of _thinking_ : he got a place in DC so it’s easier to consult with Fury, he should sell the apartment in Brooklyn, or at least sublet. He _can’t_ sell the Brooklyn apartment, all of his stuff is there, it feels like going against his roots, but the Dodgers are gone anyway, so what’s the point? He’s sorry he can’t make it. There are these SHIELD policies that he can’t agree with—did Peggy sign off on this? He’s sorry he can’t make it. They lost Hannity in an ambush. He gets the sense that Fury’s not telling him something, that maybe Fury doesn’t even want him around. They lost Kurosawa to a fire. Angie, Angie; he’s sorry, he’s sorry.

Angie puts his drawings on the mantelpiece, then she digs out a legal pad and Gabe’s old fountain pen.

She opens: _I wish I could tell you about SHIELD, but to be honest I tried to stay out of that business._ The rest of the page she fills with advice on the things he can touch, stories: _Don’t sell your place in Brooklyn, let me take care of it._ _Gabe used to take us to Dodgers games. Peggy never understood a lick of baseball so we both thought it was good for her. The day they finally gave Gabe his officer’s commission Peg got so soused we actually convinced her to sing HMS Pinafore--old lady was right about herself though, she can't carry a tune. Don’t worry about me, I’m not the one throwing myself on top of grenades. Give Peggy a kiss for me next time you visit._

And then at the very bottom, she writes: _Nick Fury, I’m trusting you to deliver this to the right person without ripping it apart for letter bombs_ , and follows it up with a couple of bald guesses at mission details and project locations, just in case he doesn’t get the message. It might be overplaying her hand, but Angie’s an old hat at demanding favors from Directors of SHIELD.

Besides—what’s he gonna do, send agents after her?

“Aunt Angie!”

Apparently that _is_ what Nick Fury is going to do. Angie looks away from the window as the train pulls out of Grand Central and gives her grand-niece a guarded smile. “Sharon? What are you doing here?”

Sharon grins at her, bolder than brass. “I missed you.”

“Likely story,” Angie grouses, but she flings her arms around Sharon anyway.

“I was in the area?” Sharon tries, voice muffled as she leans into Angie’s hug.

“I’ll bet,” Angie says, letting her go and fixing her with an appraising glare. Same old face; a little more tan, maybe. Guarded and shadowed in the way Angie thinks maybe _all_ Carters are, but blunter and younger about it than Peggy had ever been.

Sharon stays still for the inspection until Angie clucks her tongue. Then her face scrunches up to imitate Angie’s expression. “'Too skinny. You need to eat more, _passerotta._ ’”

“Hey!” She reaches out to smack Sharon in the arm. “Respect your elders. I say it because it’s true. I say it with _love_.”

“I know, I know,” Sharon says, stowing Angie’s bigger bag in the overhead compartment without bothering to ask, “And I _do_ miss you. Trip wanted to come, but he’s still somewhere out in Afghanistan’s asscrack.”

Angie arches an eyebrow—and after so long with Peggy, it’s a pretty damn impressive sight. “SHIELD was going to send _two_ of its precious legacy agents after me?”

“Director Fury said you expressed some…concerns, about SHIELD,” Sharon says, mouth twitching, “He suggested that I come up to assuage some of those worries.”

“Director Fury said no such thing,” says Angie.

That grin breaks free again. “Actually, Fury said something more like ‘get your great-aunt off my back about Captain America before she gives me a damn hernia.’”

“Sounds more like it,” Angie says. “So what _can_ you tell me?”

For some reason Sharon’s smile gets almost impish. “Well,” she says.

“Angie! Sorry, I guess I missed this car the first time—oh. Kate?”

_Kate?_ Angie mouths. Sharon ignores her, pins her smile on Steve. “Hey! I didn’t even know you were out of town.”

Steve shuffles his feet, either out of practice with lying or just plain unwilling to do it. “It was a last-minute thing.”

“This nice young lady helped me with my luggage,” Angie tells him. Might have oversold it from the way Sharon is smirking, but she’s out of practice. “You two know each other?”

He brightens. “Yeah. Angie, this is my neighbor Kate. Kate, Angie. She’s…a friend of mine, from New York.”

_Neighbor?_ Angie mouths. Sharon flashes another dazzling smile before practically jumping up from her seat. “I’ll let you guys talk.”

“You don’t have to—“ Steve protests, but Angie snags his hand and pulls him down.

“Pretty lookin’ girl,” she says, loud enough for Sharon to hear. “Neighbor, huh?”

* * *

(“Neighbor, huh,” she muses to Sharon afterwards over the phone, “Does he know about that paper you wrote for fifth grade graduation about how you want to grow up to be Captain America?”

“I changed my mind, I don’t miss you,” Sharon tells her, and if Angie closes her eyes she can picture her niece blushing all the way down to her collarbone.)

* * *

Things get hectic, a month after that.

The papers and TV explode with news of a massive traffic accident in DC caused by a man in a metal arm. Sharon sends her a series of texts: _everyone okay. Fury’s missing. Fury shot in Steve’s apartment, blew my cover. Fury’s dead. Sitwell in charge, don’t know where Hill is. have you heard from Steve?_

Antoine calls sometime between text #3 and #4, sounding strained. “I’m fine,” he says before she can even ask. “Alive. I’m rendezvousing with Coulson right now.”

“Phil Coulson is _dead_ ,” Angie says, but he’s already hung up.

She hears nothing from Steve and then everything _about_ Steve; ugly voices declaring him a traitor, an assassin, a fugitive from justice. She calls Tony, shouts at his voicemail for him to tell her what’s going on, calls the Stark Industries public number and shouts some more. Out of desperation she calls the SHIELD direct line, uses her Level 8 clearance for the first time, and fat lot of good _it_ does, because all she gets is Jasper Sitwell’s toneless reassurance that everything will be fine, has she heard from Captain Rogers?

After she hangs up Angie rips apart her cell phone and flings every piece of it at the wall, shaking. She pulls their ancient rotary dial and a revolver from the closet, fixes the phone to the landline, grabs the old medicine box, and plants herself in the foyer, clutching the gun in one hand and a rosary in the other.

_Bring them home_ , she thinks once, a thousand times.

* * *

On the third day, the phone rings.

“This is Steve,” he says when she picks up, “Ah, Steve Rogers. Are you okay?”

Angie chokes out a watery laugh. “I know who you are, Steve. And I’m alright.”

“I’m—“

“Steve Rogers,” says Angie, “If you apologize to me I will personally beat you to death. What happened? Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m…” whispers in the background; he sighs. “Someone might have gone already with the whole ‘beating to death’ thing. I’m okay,” he says quickly when she gasps, “Had him on the ropes and everything. But a lot’s—a lot has happened. Do you mind coming down to DC? As soon as possible?”

“Are the trains even running?”

More whispers. “That,” Steve says, “Is a very good question.”


	4. Chapter 4

Tony sends an armored limo because _I’m Tony Stark_ ; the car comes with a large blonde driver who looks like he’s more comfortable lifting whole buildings than doing anything behind a wheel, who introduces himself as “Th—eodore, Lady Angela.” Angie isn’t fooled.

Steve’s face is a healing mess and he’s holding himself like someone took a lead pipe to his ribs, but he stands up anyway when he first catches sight of Angie. Apparently that’s enough to set her off, because the next thing she knows Steve is holding onto her a little gingerly as she bawls all over his shirt. “It’s alright, I’m okay…everything go fine on the trip?”

That last part directed at her driver, who nods. “I cannot stay; Jane has requested an account of recent events, and I need to confirm that she is well.”

“Go,” Steve says. The man disappears in a distant _clap_.

“Must be worried if he’s dropping the ‘Lady’ part of Jane’s name,” Tony says, walking up to next. He gives Angie a strained smile. “Hey. You enjoy the complimentary bar?”

“Let’s take this somewhere else,” Steve says, nodding to the other man with him as he nudges Angie inside some office building. “Angie, this is Sam Wilson. He’s a friend. Sam—“

“Angie, right,” Sam says, thrusting his hand out with an easy smile.

Angie bites her lip before taking it. “Steve,” she says, “What happened?”

“It’s—“

“Captain?”

“ _Sharon_? _”_ Angie gasps.

Sharon smiles at her, but her eyes look like they've gotten at least seventy years older in the last couple days. “I was able to contact Dr. Banner. Agent Barton is still AWOL—“

“Natasha can—“ Steve stops himself, shakes his head. “No, she needs to stay stateside. Ask Hill if she can find him.”

“Steve, _”_ Angie says again. There’s something in his face that she doesn’t recognize and it scares her—like seeing Peggy kill someone in front of her for the first time. “ _What happened?”_

He deflates a little, and sighs. “Have you been watching the news? SHIELD is rogue—always has been. They sent assassins after me and everyone who tried to help me and started a program that was going to kill—“

“The news was saying the same thing about _you_ ,” Angie says. “Just days ago.”

Steve makes an impatient brushing gesture. “That’s not important. We managed to stop them, but there was—a lot of information had to be released so that the public would know about Hydra—“

“Hydra?” Angie says, gripping Sharon’s arm so hard her fingers turn white, “At SHIELD?”

Steve’s shoulders drop. “Hydra _is_ SHIELD, Angie. They were there from the very beginning. Peggy and Howard never knew. We stopped their immediate plans, but it’s going to take a lot of work before we can root out everyone involved. We have people looking at the records that we think are reliable and Natasha’s already at the Capitol giving a preliminary report to the Senate Defense Committee, but…it would help, if they could hear from someone who’s been involved in this from the beginning--or at least, knows what went on.”

Something ice-cold lodges itself deep inside Angie’s chest. “You mean me.”

Steve isn’t meeting her eyes, she realizes. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, but Angie—there’s no one else.”

Angie wants to hit him, but she’s too busy trying to breathe right. “’Course there is. Where’s Nick Fury? I don’t believe for a second he’s actually dead. Janet’s been working there since almost the beginning, or—“

“Fury had to go into hiding,” Tony says, not looking at her either. “They tried to kill him twice—he shows up at the Capitol and they’ll pop him off right away—“

“Doesn’t that just _figure_ ,” Angie says, her voice not quite steady, “When trouble comes Nick Fury can run for the hills but you dragged me all the way down here so I can be interrogated by a whole buncha stuffed shirts—“

“It’s not like that,” Steve says, looking anguished, “You were one of the targets of Project Insight, I—we brought you here so you’d be safe.”

“I’m not _safe!_ ” Something rips itself loose from her lungs, and the air smells suddenly like stale fear _;_ fear like the taste in her mouth as her Ma sighs and says _one more time Angela, talk like Brooklyn, drop the end sound_ , fear like the white of Peggy’s clenched hands, the hollows of Gabe’s cheeks. “You just told me I was a target but that’s all dandy if I can just spill my guts to the FBI, tear down some more of what Peggy built—“

She remembers the flickering lights in the room they held her in after J. Edgar Hoover’s surprise visit, answering the same questions over and over again: _Yes I was there No I am not That document is forged I don’t know anything_

And then later, listening to the insults grown Senators throw at her while she sat ramrod straight, the fabric of her dress sticking to her back.

“It’s not like that,” Steve is saying. “This wasn’t Peggy’s fault, SHIELD isn’t—“

“SHIELD _was_ Peggy’s! She near killed herself just to get the damn thing on its feet, made her mark like she always meant to—and then you just go in and rip it to shreds willy-nilly like it was nothing—“

“That’s not fair,” Sharon says, very quietly.

Angie rounds on her. “You’ll be singin’ a different tune in a couple of weeks. What happens to your life when the name Carter starts to mean traitor?”

“That’s not going to happen,” Steve says, so firmly she can almost— _almost_ believe him. “Angie, we _had_ to. It would have been genocide otherwise, millions of people just dropping dead—including you and most everyone I know. And that was just _one_ mission. We need to find out how deep this goes before we can—“

“And you think if I waltzed into a hearing—a _nobody_ —they’d just all believe me? You think they’re not gonna ask how I knew about all this? You don’t think they’re going to wonder what Peggy Carter was doing, handin’ state secrets to some Italian dame who barely skirted a treason charge? How long before they figure out that their fancy former Director of SHIELD—besides marrying a black man—is a—a _queer?”_

Steve stares at her, throat working. “It wouldn’t come to that. And if it did, I’d—“

Angie laughs; a wild, horriblesound tinged with hysteria. “What, Steve? Save the world again and let we little people pick up the pieces?” Somewhere, someplace, she thinks she _must_ have crossed a line, but it’s all buried under the molten terror. “Righteous _Captain America_ , going on your fucking adventures while we stay home and wait wonderin’ if you’ll ever come back—“

She spasms, inexplicably, to a stop. Steve’s entire body is rigid, but the look he fixes Angie is stupidly, hopelessly kind. “I know,” he says.

It’s enough to uproot her. “I’m sorry,” she says, feels like someone might have kicked all the air out of her lungs. “I—“

She turns on the spot. “Where are you going?” someone shouts.

The deep black panic clawing its way through her lungs doesn't let her answer.

* * *

Peggy’s eyes are closed when Angie makes her way to her room, and for a second the bottom drops out of her stomach for the third time in so many minutes, but then—

“Angie,” Peggy breathes, eyes fluttering open.

She forces a smile that feels wobbly, even on the giving end. _Some actress_. “Hey there, grandma.”

“Hmph.”

That’s as good an invitation to come in as any. “How’re you feeling?”

“Indecently healthy,” Peggy pronounces as she pushes herself up from the bed. Her eyes flick to the blank television screen in her room. “I suppose it’s fate’s way of punishing me, given what’s happened to the country in the last few days.”

“Don’t say that,” Angie says instantly.

Peggy gives her a sharp smile that softens, once she gives Angie a quick once-over. “Never mind. How are _you_ , love?”

“I—“ The cold, choking sensation crawls back from wherever Angie pushed it back, and suddenly all she can hear is the voice of her Ma saying _we don’t run from a fight, Angela, especially not with family_. “I—“

“Here,” Peggy murmurs, shifting a little to the side. Angie sinks into the place next to her, chest heaving. “Slow breaths, alright? Tell me where it hurts.”

Angie closes her eyes, willing the roaring in her ears to die down. “I screamed at Captain America,” she says finally, after her breathing settles.

Peggy pauses, and then skims her fingers through Angie’s hair. “I’m certain he deserved it.”

“No,” Angie says, “No, he…”

She opens her eyes, fixing her gaze down to where her hand found Peggy’s free one of its own accord. The solid feel of their grip on each other is comforting, even after all these years. Nothing except Angie’s own hand—long fingers, longer palms—resting against Peggy’s smaller one.

(And Gabe’s, smaller still; dainty hands that looked like they belonged more in a studio than a battlefield.)

“You remember what I told you,” she says, leaving aside Steve for now, “About my family comin’ over to the States?”

Peggy looks at her curiously, but she considers the question. “Your father was a member of the Italian Socialist Party, I believe.”

“Right,” Angie says, staring up at the blank TV screen now, remembering. “He was an up-and-coming after the Great War, but after Mussolini became such a big shot it wasn’t so comfortable anymore. Babbo stayed as long as he could, but by 1929 it was pretty much pull out or get the whole family sent to a labor camp. We pulled out—all twenty-seven Martinellis, stuffed into one little compartment in a boat and sent out to sea. Landed on Ellis Island, eventually found our way to East Brooklyn and then…well.”

“You met a charming yet closed off Englishwoman?” Peggy asks, her mouth quirking.

“Maybe,” Angie allows, grinning. “We settled here alright, at any rate—but Babbo never let us forget where we came from, why we ran—said it was important. Drilled it in my head from the day I turned five to the day he died. _Vote left, Angela, or at least the closest coglione that counts_. I’m—91 years old now, English, and I’ve always done what he asked, because I always thought he was right. I lived through—“

Her breath stutters. Peggy squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back. “I lived through the Red Scare, I lived through Reagan, I lived through the PATRIOT Act and anything anyone threw at me I could take. But now…”

“But now,” Peggy says, her tone deceptively neutral, “You’ve found out that I’d made you an accomplice Fascist, all those years ago.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Angie says, “God, Peg—if you couldn’t catch the bastards who snuck into your SHIELD no one could have. But…standin’ there, listening to Steve talk about all this, about how everything you built was rotten from the start, and me and Gabe, we helped—I just couldn’t take it, and…I took it out on him.”

“You’ve always had a flair for drama,” Peggy says. There’s a strange, faraway kind of glitter in her eyes. “Last time Steve came to visit, before all this came to light…I told him that we’d rather mucked up the world, after he saved it. I suppose I just didn’t know how much.”

“Don’t,” Angie says desperately, “Don’t blame yourself for this. Steve told me his plan, before I threw my little tantrum, and—well, he might not want anything to do with _me_ again, but—“

“Steve thinks the world of you,” Peggy says quietly, “I highly doubt having an anxiety attack in front of him will change his opinion, no matter how vitriolic you may have been.”

“—he’ll keep doing right by the country, it’s in his bones. He’ll protect you, too, the best he can. And—and me and the kids and all the Avengers, we’ll help out. We’ll _fix_ this, Peg—no one stays broken forever.”

Peggy looks at her for a long time, and then _laughs._ “You know, Angie Martinelli,” she says, something like amazement shining in her eyes, “For a long time after Steve’s disappearance, I thought that  _that was it_ , that I’d never see anything quite as extraordinary as that man ever again. Then I walked into that automat one night, and…”

And _that_ just makes her cry all over again, tears spilling out faster than she wipe, grip on Peggy so hard her knuckles pop, so tight that Angie can make herself believe if only for a moment that they could stay like this until some kind of end.

“Oh, my darling,” Peggy murmurs, “You really _are_ remarkable, but even you can’t save me from everything.”

Angie drops her head onto Peggy’s shoulder, breathes in. “I can try.”

* * *

Trains out of DC stay nonfunctional and she can’t bring herself to show her face near Tony yet, so Angie hikes to a hotel a little out of the way and decides to stay for the duration. She keeps one eye on the TV and the other eye on the hotel computer, does everything she can get away with and a little more to find information on Insight and Hydra.

“I’m your tail,” a man announces at her door a week later. He holds up a bag of takeout. “Lunch?”

She squints up at his face. “You’re Sam Wilson,” she says, letting him into the room. “Wouldn’t know Natasha Romanoff by any chance, would you?”

“Who, the lady on the TV?” He grins shamelessly at her unimpressed look. “Yeah, met her while she and Steve were on the run. Gave me this job, told me everything she did last time so I can do the exact opposite.”

“Smart girl,” Angie murmurs, turning her attention back to C-SPAN, where sure enough Natasha is at another hearing.

“Broke into Fort Meade for me without breakin’ a sweat,” Sam agrees, “Brave, too.”

Angie hums, watches as some Republican from Mississippi brings up Natasha’s background for the thousandth time. “I don’t know how she does it,” she says quietly as Natasha repeats the details of her defection, also for the thousandth time. “Sit there while they rake her over the coals just ‘cause…”

Sam looks at her, then turns his gaze back onto the TV. “I grew up in Harlem,” he says, after a while. “Parents died within two years of each other when I was a teenager, both racially motivated murders. After that I…lost my way for a while, wasn’t until much later that I started to trust people again, be dependable. From what Steve’s said—from what I’ve seen—Natasha’s trying to learn something similar.”

Angie says nothing. On C-SPAN, a muscle on Natasha’s right cheek jumps as the committee adjourns for the seventh time today.

Sam is watching her again. “Day I met Natasha,” he says, “She and Steve just showed up at my door, covered in soot, and the first thing she said to me was— _everyone we know is trying to kill us_. Before that I’d only met Steve once, and the only thing I knew about it was that he could run fast and never listened to Marvin Gaye. When they needed a place to lay low, Steve chose _me_ of all people to trust, and that…that means something. Natasha, putting herself in the crossfire now…that means something too.”

_Steve’s family_ , Angie had told Natasha, forever ago. She looks at her hands. “It’s not that simple.”

“Never is,” Sam says, and then stands up. “Well, I should get back to it. Here,” he tosses a cellphone and a card onto her table. “New Stark product. I heard what you said about not being safe anyway, but—it’s still better to be on the grid. The card’s mine—I run a support group on Thursdays, vets of all stripes. You can come anytime.”

“I’m not a vet,” Angie protests.

Sam looks up and down at her, smiles. “Come anyway.”

* * *

The Starkphone comes pre-programmed with everything she could possible need from a phone and a lot of things she definitely doesn’t, and a pre-recorded message.

“Angie, it’s Steve. I—I know you’re still upset with me, or with…everything that’s been happening, and that’s alright. Really. You made some good points, about protecting the people that need protection, and I just wanted you to know that we’re going to do our best with that. But SHIELD _needed_ to be brought down, and some things need to be put right, and to do that, we need to put the information in the people’s hands. That can’t change. I have to believe that this country can make itself better, Angie, I need to…”

A hiss of static as he sighs. “Three days ago,” he continues, his voice shaking slightly, “Sam and I, we were going to start the search for a very good friend of mine who…went missing, a long time ago. I thought that it’d be the hardest thing I would ever do, to find him and help him, but then he was just…waiting, by our car at the Smithsonian. He’s been through a lot and he’s definitely not like I remember, but. Sometimes amazing things happen, Angie, because people are capable of it. I believe that—I’ve _always_ believed that. Not everything is lost.

“I’d—I’d like you to call me, if you want to. I’m not asking for you to testify, or anything—just to hear your voice, so I know you’re okay. Sam’s updates only tell me so much, y’know? Tony says my number’s programmed into the phone, so just…call, if you can, or if you need anything. Okay? Thanks for listening.”

After, she wipes her eyes and dials his number. _I’m sorry_ , she sends in a text message. _I can’t. Not yet. I’m sorry_.

* * *

Some days the amount of  _stuff_ people put in front Gabe’s grave makes it impossible for Angie to visit. The third Monday of every January always leaves the site practically canvassed with bouquets, family photos, cards, and stones. Februaries, much the same: messages saying  _thank you, Mr. Jones; you make us proud_ .

There’s not a lot of it today—just a few scattered violets. She tries not read too much into it; besides, this is much better than what she was half-expecting—litter everywhere, Gabe’s grave a total wreck.

(That had been a—problem, ten years ago; also on the third Monday of January. Angie and Peggy had gone personally out the next day, picked up and cleaned everything by hand.)

Say what you will about how they mistreated Gabe while he was living—the Army knew how to honor its dead. Posthumous promotion to brigadier general, a full service, interment here at a beautiful, isolated clearing suited for a war hero.

Still, Angie wonders if he gets lonely; Director of SHIELD or not, Peggy doesn’t have a chance of being buried here, and Angie herself even less.

She puts the peonies right beneath his name, smiles down. “Hiya, Gabe. How’s the next life treatin’ you?”

Two years ago, Peggy would have been here with her. Peggy would have rolled her eyes but she would have understood, why Angie is talking to a piece of hammered rock like it can talk back.

They all consecrate their dead in different ways.

“Peg wanted to be here,” she tells Gabe, “But…you know.”

_I know_ , she imagines Gabe saying. Imagines nothing but his hand in hers.

Angie breathes in, lets go. “I dunno,” she says, “I just…I don’t know, Gabe. Yesterday she tried to give me a Christmas list for the grandkids, got Sharon’s age right but missed Antoine’s by about fifteen years. Day before that she got herself all worked up over Howard and Maria’s car accident, wouldn’t even see me, and…”

“It’d just be better,” she says after a pause, swallowing the lump in her throat, “If you were still around. Things didn’t really start to go until after you left, but now Captain America’s back from the dead and aliens broke through our apartment and SHIELD fallin’ to pieces and—“

It takes her too long to realize that whatever trajectory her body is moving in is _wrong_ , and by then she’s already sagged against Gabe’s gravestone, shaking. “It’s gone,” she gasps, “It’s—it’s all _gone_ , Gabe—everything you and Peggy and Howard worked on, everybody, just—Steve said it was all lies and if I believe anyone these days I believe him. It’ll be Hoover and McCarthy all over again, only this time it won’t just be my name they drag through the mud, it’ll be Peg’s and yours and I can’t do a thing about it and I’m so _afraid_ , Gabe, I’m so—“

“Angie,” a shocked voice says, and the next thing she knows Steve’s arms are around her shoulders, holding her gently as she collapses in on herself.

* * *

“I’ll do it,” she tells him, after most of the tears of stopped. “I’ll testify.”

Steve shifts slightly next to her. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

“I know,” Angie sighs, looking at Gabe’s tombstone. “They called him ‘the last hero of Civil Rights’ the day he was shot—can you believe that? Like _good riddance, now we can stop worrying about the blacks._ Surprised Gabe didn’t roll out of the morgue right then and there. I guess I’m—fight’s never over, right? Might as well join in the best I can.”

Steve fixes her with another one of those stares that makes her feel like she’s getting X-Rayed. Then he smiles. “Thank you,” he says.

“It’s no problem,” Angie says, shrugging. She looks sideways at him, and clears her throat. “You know—next time we visit Peggy, we oughta do it together.”

He looks at her in surprise. “You sure? I wouldn’t want to—“

She sighs again, more out of exasperation than anything else. “Peg used to carry a picture of you around all the time. She still does, but the one she used to have was from the days before you got all large ‘n in charge. Didn’t really fit, but she jammed that thing in her wallet for a good twenty years, until it just turned to dust, one day. Too old. She got a replacement—one of those trading cards she always got a good laugh out of, but it wasn’t the same.”

There’s a damp look to Steve’s eyes and his fingers tremble, just a little. “Why are you telling me this?”

Angie takes a deep breath. “I lived my life imagining you more as a mouthy pain in the ass Brooklyn kid than any _Captain America_ , and when I met you I knew I was right—you _are_ a pain in my ass. Me and Gabe and Peg, we lived together always saving a place for you—at SHIELD and at home, even though we never expected you to come back. And that…shouldn’t change, just because you have. _Mia casa e tua._ ”

Steve chuckles. “Well, if you put it like that…”

She shrugs; it’s pretty simple. “Needed sayin’. And…I really am sorry, about what I said when I first got here.”

“Apology accepted,” he says, like it’s pretty simple.

* * *

“I am just  _saying_ ,” Tony is saying as they walk back into the lobby of her hotel, “That  _Incredibles_ is a more topical movie. It has superheroes— _we’re_ superheroes. There’s fucked up family issues. A nice jet—“

“A megalomaniacal inventor trying to compensate for something?” Natasha suggests from one of the couches.

Tony glares at Natasha. “What do _you_ wanna watch?”

“ _Das Boot_ ,” she says, without batting an eyelash. Beside her, Sharon stifles a laugh.

“Uh- _huh_. Steve!” Tony says, spotting them. “I bought the hotel—“

“Of course you did,” Angie mutters.

“We’re doing movie night in the lobby. Back me up.”

“I don’t want to watch _The Incredibles_ ,” Steve says instantly. “Angie—there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“You just don’t want to watch it because it’s Johnny Storm’s favorite movie,” Tony says, but he lets them cross the lobby and head into the small alcove down the hall where they keep the books.

“Angie,” Steve says, nodding to what Angie originally thought was a bag of laundry, “This is…”

The man looks up, and mismatched clothes and metal arm or not, Angie can recognize James Buchanan Barnes’ mug when she sees him.

“I call him Bucky,” Steve says, very quietly.

“Angie Martinelli,” she says, stretching out a hand, “ _You_ must be the dumb punk who wrecked all the train lines.”

Whatever Bucky was expecting, it wasn’t that; he takes her hand, and then looks surprised at what he’s done.

Behind her, Steve snickers. “Tony said something about watching a movie,” he says, “We’ll be in the lobby, if you…”

Bucky picks himself from the chair and makes to follow them, and it’s Steve’s turn to look surprised.

* * *

“…so that’s one for  _Finding Nemo_ , one for  _Incredibles_ , one for…something in Cyrillic _,_ ” Tony says, making a tally on a whiteboard he summoned from somewhere. “Baby Carter, how do you vote?”

“Call me that again and I’ll cut your little finger off with a butter knife,” Sharon says. “ _Finding Nemo_.”

Sam raises his hands in victory. “Asshole,” Tony mutters, and then brightens as he sees them come back into the lobby. “Hey!”

“ _On the Waterfront_ ,” Angie says immediately, and turns to Bucky. “How ‘bout you?”

He opens his mouth before closing it again like he’s scared of catching flies. “I’ve never seen _Star Wars_ ,” he finally says.

That decides that.


End file.
